But as the fire crackled to life and the warmth filled the room, Johnathan lowered himself to the floor across from her, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Are you afraid?” He asked.
Frances looked at him then—not startled. Not pretending. Just honest.
“Yes,” she said. “But not of him anymore.”
Johnathan’s brow furrowed. “Then what?”
She hesitated. “Not of Cranford. Not of death. But of what comes after. Of what we will be. Of what we will not.”
He leaned forward slightly. “You think I will leave you?”
“I think you have spent a lifetime convincing yourself you do not deserve anything permanent.”
He stared into the fire for a moment. Then said, “You are right.”
Frances’s breath caught.
“But I am tired of running,” he said quietly. “From them. From myself. From you.”
She said nothing, but her hand reached across the space between them and settled atop his.
“Then stop.”
He turned his palm to hold hers, a hush folding around them again.
Danger lingered.
But tonight, for now, they were together.
They did not sleep deeply.
Johnathan kept his pistol within arm’s reach, and though Frances lay on a pallet of old blankets near the fire, she stirred often, eyes flicking toward the windows as if expecting shadows to gather just beyond the glass.
The fire dimmed to coals. Outside, the wind shifted. The night grew still.
At first light, Johnathan helped her mount his horse, then swung up behind her. They traveled hard, abandoning the woodland path for a jagged route through shallow marshes and stony moors.
Hours passed. Rain threatened again.
But neither spoke of it. They did not need to.
By dusk, they spotted the gray rise of Scottish hills on the horizon.
Hope.
Johnathan reined in, breath sharp, Frances clutching the saddle before him.
“We are almost there,” he murmured against her ear. “We will make it.”
Frances turned her head. “We have to.”
But even as they watched the border draw near, hoofbeats echoed behind them—three, maybe four riders.
Johnathan pressed his forehead briefly to the back of her neck, then whispered, “Hold on.”
And they rode.
Faster than before. Faster than fear.
Through the rising wind. Toward the promise of freedom.
Toward Gretna Green.
